


The Dread Waltz

by ClockworkCourier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22996138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: It's 1848. The Magnus Institute still has that new-paint smell, the occult is very stylish among many social circles, and Jonathan Sims has just received the order to transcribe an entire scrambled archive using only ink and paper.Fantastic.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	The Dread Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> [YEETS THIS THING OUT OF A MOVING CAR WINDOW WHILE I BLAST SEA SHANTIES AND THE NEIGHBORS CALL THE COPS -- HALLELUYAR!!]
> 
> no but this started as a "can i retell anglerfish as a victorian letter?"   
> jury's out if i succeeded or not, but i did get more than 5000 words out of the concept.

October 9th, 1848  
York Philosophical Society Museum, York  
  
My Dearest Jonah—  
  
My apologies, dear friend, for the dearth in my letter-writing these last few months. As you may imagine, I have been intensely occupied with business and have had little time to keep correspondence even with my kindest of friends. I pray it sets your mind at ease to know that I have kept you often in my thoughts and have mentioned you in conversation with my colleagues with only the greatest of regard. I gladly received your latest letter and enjoyed the warmth of your prose and the good news of your health and the goings-on in London. As to the matter of your last request, it is hardly a trifle to respond to it as quickly as possible so as to honour it and make up for my written silence. With any good fortune, winter may quiet some of the business of the Philosophical Society so I may meet with you in person and better answer you outside of my inelegant penmanship.  
  
I have enclosed a copy of the letter given to me by Mr Ogilvy with regard the account of Mr Watts, and further research of my own and that of the Society itself. I must say to you, Jonah, the account has an extraordinary strangeness to it that I can hardly account for. Mr Sheppard has repeatedly reiterated that it may be owed to Mr Watts being a student and perhaps given to entertaining strange fancies, or it may be the result of inebriation. However, I cannot help but connect it to other letters the Society has received throughout the years. Besides the letter, I have included a summarised account of one such note. Perhaps the connection is simply my own imagination enchanted by such tales as that of Mr Watts, but I believe you may be able to make more of it. After I conclude this letter, I will further consult our records and library; and I will take this line to remind you that the doors of the Society are always open to you, as both a friend and a benefactor.  
  
As to your second question, no man in York would be more pleased to support such a venture. Any friend of yours will have my hand extended to them as well, and no more than your name would need be said in order to ensure my good regard. I believe it was Edward Pickett who pleasantly divined your successes in all things, and I find it no hard exercise of my own prophetic power to agree with him. For those in your employ, all that needs to be done is send a letter ahead of their arrival, and they shall find a warm bed at the ready at High Petergate.  
  
I greatly anticipate any reply from you, my friend, and dearly hope that what I can provide has its use in the advancement of your collection. Give my kind word to my friends in London, and a promise that I will see them soon. I am, as always, your faithful friend—

_A.V.T. McCarran_

❧

Jonathan Sims curses to himself all the way along his rain-soaked path to the Magnus Institute. Every step aches, reminds him of the water in his shoes (they _were_ new, once), the icy sluice with its genesis in his collar and its termination somewhere down his spine, the throbbing in his left knee, and the headache that stretches toward his eyes—now blurred by raindrops clinging to his spectacles, making it all a moot point to attempt to see anything _anyway_. He quickly runs through the gamut of impolite words but keeps them low as to not offend nearby polite company. Granted, with the deluge curtaining London, he doubts polite company is much inclined to enjoy a stroll. Once he nears the Institute, his curses are renewed with added energy as the thick-clustered buildings of London thin out near the river, exposing him to a fresh whipping breeze and an extra drenching for his trouble.  
  
It’s in this state that he finds himself under the great gaping eye of the Magnus Institute’s new mosaic cupola with a long line of wet following his hurried steps. The lobby is a rush of activity with assistants and scholars crossing paths at crazed rates, the low hum of conversation echoing through the domed space like a cramped Saint Paul’s. For a hopeful moment, Jon thinks it’s far too busy for anyone to take notice of him. However, an unfortunately present Timothy Stoker doubles over with laughter on sight, nearly spilling the pile of books in his arms.  
  
“Oh Lord, if only you could look at yourself!” he wheezes.   
  
“Thank you, Mister Stoker,” Jon replies coldly, which he’s sure just enhances his drowned appearance as water drips off the tip of his nose. Appropriately, he sniffs and futilely tries to wipe his face with a soaked sleeve before briskly continuing on his way. He’s in no mood to clean himself up before meeting with Jonah, as he’d much rather relay the information, gather what he needs, and hurry back down into the archives proper to sulk as needed.   
  
The way to Jonah’s office bustles with just as much energy as the rest of the building. That’s to be expected, as the Institute is new enough that the novelty of such a place has struck some imaginative chord among the people—both affluent and common, it seems. Post arrives daily—letters and parcels alike, filling desks and tables and stacking up in spare chairs when there aren’t enough hands to go through them with due speed. Jon’s office is practically bricked in on all sides by boxes of the things, with Jonah’s orders to thoroughly document and organise the things. All the while, commands come down from on high with the Magnus Institute’s blessing to follow up on claims and pleas; Jon privately thinks that Jonah’s simply revelling in his successes, wherever he can find them.  
  
At present, Jon narrowly dodges a harried young woman carrying a (dripping?) parcel with two hands, hoisting it aloft as though she thinks it will tear itself asunder. A strange, cloying smell follows after her which greatly reminds Jon of wet cemetery soil and decaying roses. Some doors beyond, he hears a mounting argument over the pronunciation and meaning of a certain document delivered in cuneiform, with one gentleman asserting that the exact translation of the Sumerian refers to the use of _priest_ in a ritual, _not_ a perfumer.  
  
“It clearly says _simmu,_ you great idiot!” he howls, and Jon can hear him pounding on what he hopes is a desk.  
  
“No, it says _sim-mu!_ ” his adversary enunciates, followed by more pounding sounds, the rising cumulonimbus of frantically-puffed tobacco smoke, and the thunderhead of an argument Jon would rather not witness.   
  
Jonah’s office announces itself with a gravitas that Jon’s always found a little… self-absorbed, in a word. Granted, the man’s allowed to construct his Institute however he’d like, what with his name above the door and his personal seal of approval on every paper going in or out. However, there’s just _something_ about approaching his office and seeing the delicate scrollwork around the doorframe, and the gilded lettering on the carved and polished oak announcing his grandiose presence within. Even the door handle is rendered into a brassy curve like the F-hole on a violin and Jon feels like he should wipe his hands before he touches the thing. Then, he reminds himself of his irritation compounded throughout the day to headache levels and he—perhaps traitorously—thinks Jonah can handle one dirty door handle.  
  
Well, within reason. Jon still _knocks_ before entering.  
  
He hears what he _thinks_ is a muffled noise of acquiescence before he walks into the office. As expected, it’s in a general state of what Sasha’s kindly called _chaotic eloquence_ —Jon’s in agreement on the phrase. Indeed, it’s the office of a _gentleman_ in every sense; bookcases filled to each end with leather bindings and embossed titles on cracked spines, a studious desk of some dark and exotic polished wood, sitting furniture made in a similar style, a marble fireplace carved with aloof and wide-eyed cherubs absently studying the cheery flame, and oil paintings covering what ever wall surface isn’t dedicated to knowledge. The _chaotic_ bit comes from the general state of the _other_ available surfaces, like the desk currently supporting a precariously left-listing stack of books, or the innumerable envelopes scattered from the desk to the floor and leaving a bread crumb trail to a gilded tray that Jon assumes is for incoming correspondence. Jonah’s prized polar bear rug snarls up at a wall, currently sporting a single grey-envelope pinned to the wooden surface by a gold letter opener acting as a dart. And in the centre of it all is Jonah Magnus himself, master of this little corner of London, surveying the strange and bizarre from the comfort of a well-worn leather chair.  
  
He’s dressed smartly, rather in the style of gentlemen of Parliament. His dark hair is slicked back with precision and Jon can smell the macassar oil even from where he stands. Not one strand of his careful ensemble is out of place, and aside from a garish silk tie at his throat (Jon’s not a fashion-conscious man, but something about Thames-brown, sulphur-yellow, and arsenic-green playacting as a tartan makes him feel a bit queasy for some reason), he’s in every appearance a prince in his castle—even if the ‘castle’ is about to be shaken to its still-new foundations from an argument about proper nouns in Sumerian.  
  
Jonah smiles in the way he always does—careful but curled like a cat’s smirk. “Mister Sims! Back so soon? I half-expected to write off another day or two before any results were forthcoming.”  
  
Jon grinds his teeth for just a moment before he crosses the too-wide space, not minding the water dripping on the back of the unfortunate polar bear before he takes a seat across from Jonah’s desk. “Yes. Well. There were some… _issues_ with your source,” he returns, none-too-kindly.   
  
Jonah’s eyebrows go up. If Jon weren’t mistaken, he’d think Jonah looks delighted. “Oh?”  
  
“Apparently, the Misses Prudhomme took up residence in Bath six years ago, and what remains of their operations at Wellclose Square is a bit of a— a _misanthrope_.” Jon’s jaw snaps shut on the terminus of the word before he fixes himself to square his shoulders and speak again: “I was chased halfway to Trinity Square before their guard dog gave up the hunt.”  
  
“How unfortunate. What breed?”  
  
“Mancunian stockyard worker, I believe.”  
  
There’s a slight startle in Jonah’s face before it gives way to a smile far less restrained than the usual trimmed and prim edition. Then, it splits into an outright laugh. “Well,” he says, his voice riding on mirth. “At least you had your exercise for the day.”  
  
Jon can’t help but be a little petulant, as leather upholstery forces him to sit in his own puddle. “Did you have your last Head Archivist do things like this?”  
  
“This and more, honestly,” Jonah replies, splaying one hand on a letter resting on his desk. “But clearly you don’t seem to be in the mood to go back out and try again at Wellclose, so perhaps I have something more to your taste.”  
  
“Does it involve going back out into the weather?” Jon asks, narrowing his eyes.  
  
“No. This one is purely restricted to the archives themselves.” He gives the letter another quick pat, causing the blue wax seal to wobble where it’s curled up toward the ceiling. “As well you know, recording and retrieving statements only makes up some part of your work. And I confess, in all the excitement of watching the Institute stretch its fledgling wings in London, I may have allowed our archives to become a bit… Ah, what’s the word?”  
  
Jon has it, because he’s thought it several dozen times now. “Disorganised?” he supplies.  
  
“Perhaps,” Jonah replies, still smiling. “Our dear Gertrude did what she could, but there was oversight aplenty in the last few years, and her priorities were not to the categorical.”  
  
Right. The late, glorious Gertrude Robinson. Her shadow falls strangely on her successor, as Jon’s now painfully observed the summit of her work in the form of endless leaves of papers and scholarly rubble. Those who knew her swear to her sharp intellect, but no one has ever provided posthumous compliments as to her filing skills. The only reason Jon hasn’t brought up the issue to Jonah is because that would require having a plan.   
  
“So I’ve noticed,” is all Jon says on the matter.  
  
Jonah snaps up the letter between his index and middle finger, flicking it out toward Jon like a betting ticket. His smile almost matches the bend in the paper. “Consider this the first step in the process of reversing archival destruction,” he quips. When Jon gingerly takes the envelope, Jonah folds his hands on the top of the desk, his elbow dangerously close to an open inkpot. “I meant to call you in later in the week, assuming the Prudhomme ladies would be more forthcoming with the contents of their father’s library. However, as I personally am not in the greatest of terms with the family myself, I suppose I can begin the next stage in the interim.”  
  
Jon looks at the folded paper in his hands. The wax seal is oddly heavy against his palm, the paper a waxy yellow at the edges like it’s been kept in the damp, and Jonah’s name on the face of it is written in gossamer-thin handwriting.   
  
“You can begin by transcribing the contents of this letter and the one within it to the empty books sent last week,” Jonah adds.  
  
 _This_ raises Jon’s brow in surprise. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“I know quite well that not all letters and documents can be kept as fine as the Magna Charta, so I’ve seen fit to order several empty books to fill with the contents in our archives—letters, descriptions of artefacts, and the like. They can be far better kept in this form than how they’re currently stored. Wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
He would, except he very much does not _want_ to. The thought of painstakingly transcribing the ridiculously large collection in its current state is as daunting as standing on the Cliffs of Dover with toes just over the edge. The Magnus Institute is becoming something of a senior among some of its academic peers, but the collection far seems to outweigh its years. Jon feels a strange sense of vertigo at the mere thought.  
  
“Alright,” he says, rather than disagreeing with vigour.   
  
Jonah looks delighted. “Alright?” he repeats.  
  
“I… It’s a daunting task, sir. I’m sure you’ve accounted for that in the proposal.”  
  
“Oh, I certainly have. But I am also certain that I’ve chosen exactly the right man for the task. Your recommendations from Oxford alone would have stood in for an in-person rapport with me, and you certainly won’t be going at it alone. Even the greatest thinkers of the age have assistants to help with the mule-work!”  
  
If the thought of transcription was bad enough, the thought of having _assistants_ worsens things considerably. Jon _was_ an assistant, and a practised one at that. However, he’s more inclined to find kindship with the misanthropic giant guarding the Prudhomme house than he is with his fellow employees. Some seem to think of the Institute as a sort of paranormal social club, complete with _far_ too many cups of tea than the budget can cover.  
  
“Sir, I—”  
  
“At present, I think Mister Stoker, Miss James, and Mister Blackwood would serve nicely,” Jonah goes on, either ignorant of Jon’s rising discomfort or outright talking past it. “They’ve all done good work for the Institute and I think quite highly of each of them.”  
  
Then, Jonah’s look goes _very_ level—it’s as assessing as it is commanding, as if he’s called Jon to muster.  
  
Jon—perhaps wisely—doesn’t speak. He _does_ swallow very hard, though.  
  
“Your thoughts, Mister Sims?”  
  
“I— Ah— I think it’s a fine idea, sir. They’ll be, uh… a— a great help, I’m sure.”  
  
The silence between them is weighted, as heavy as the blue-grey rainclouds outside. Jon hears the fire crackle like a snickering laugh from its marble throat.  
  
Then, Jonah laughs again, as rich as a low chord on a well-tuned violin. “Very good. I’ve already mentioned something of the nature to Mister Stoker and he seemed enthusiastic. I’ll call in the other two later today. I would suggest pulling up a few documents to let them parse though and research. You’ll see their individual strengths in time, certainly.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“And start with the one in your hand, as I said,” Jonah says, giving the envelope a quick, dismissive gesture. “You may find it’s worth more than just a sceptical glance.”  
  
❧

For a building so new in the scheme of London architecture, the belly of the archives has the sense of some ancient chapter house. In Jonah’s design, he seemed to be partial to mahogany floors that seemed to pull the radiance from every lamp and candle, draining it into its dark and dusty crevasses. The walls of the archives are hidden behind bookshelves already, _miraculously_ coated in dust and cobwebs, as though the Institute itself is a hundred years older than its establishment. Most of those who work in the Institute are employed in the sunlight-filled library, basking under stained glass shadows that dapple the massive reading room like a fairyland.  
  
Jon’s partial to the underbelly, himself. It’s quieter there.  
  
He’s got his little nook in one corner near the western edge of the archive room proper, between stacks intended for documents starting with HA- and ending with LU-. Granted, Gertrude Robinson’s tenure firmly did away with all things alphabetical. As Jon’s judged it, her means of shelving tended toward which ever shelf was closest to where she was working at the time. He’s even found an account of a strange mirage near the Zaire River under a possibly haunted book about the medieval history of Anglesey.   
  
At least he hasn’t been sentenced to artefact storage. He shudders at the thought as he puts his inkstand down on his desk.   
  
The newest object in the archives is a large crate of empty books, sent from a privately-owned bookbinder all the way in _Leipzig_ , of all places. Each book is identical to the others: black leather binding, ridged along the spine every inch and a half or so, each ridge delicately embossed with a gold stripe, and a small golden owl peering up from the base of the spine. Jon selects one book at random, plucking it from the crate and opening it, as if somehow words will just magically appear on the blank pages. Each page is, as expected, utterly blank. He can still feel the ridges on the edges of the pages where they’ve been freshly cut.  
  
Pages he’s meant to fill—at this rate for the rest of his life.  
  
He sits down at his desk, opening the book to its first page. Steel nib at the ready, he dips it into the waiting well of India ink, and begins to write.  
  
 _Statements of the Magnus Institute  
Volume I.  
  
Compiled by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist  
  
_He sets the pen back in the inkwell and lets the page dry before opening Jonah’s letter to see what it is he’s meant to write. The first letter is simple enough; a letter from an old friend of Jonah’s from the York Philosophical Society, greeting Jonah with warmth and enthusiasm. There’s talk of the second and third letters folded within, and then an invitation to York. Jon opens the next page of the blank book and transcribes Mister McCarran’s letter before he opens the second.   
  
Jon reads it once.   
  
Twice.  
  
Then a third time.  
  
Each time, he looks over the handwriting—practically _palsied_ with shakiness, like the writer transcribed it all in a hurry. Jon knows it’s a copy of an original, but something about the letters suggests that even this Mister Ogilvy was struck by what he read. Jon takes in a deep breath before taking up his own pen, ready to smooth out Ogilvy’s terror into something legible.  
  


Statement of Nathan Watts, as transcribed from a letter to Thos. Ogilvy – regarding an event taken place in Old Fishmarket Close in Edinburgh, Scotland in March of 1840.

Statement transcribed by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

To Whom It May Concern:  
  
I apologise for my poor recollection of the events I intend to put to page, as I am still not entirely certain that what happened to me was a matter of my imagination, a product of addled thought, or true at all. All the same, sirs, I was told that there are places in the Empire that a man can go and give account of the strangeness of his day and shall be accepted without judgement. As what took place at Old Fishmarket Close still weighs heavy on my mind, even if it may not even have happened save perhaps in a horrible dream, I would rather take to paper and wash away the stains of it, as it were.  
  
I am acquainted with your Mister Mackenzie, as we have both studied chemistry at the University of Edinburgh in the same terms, and attended many of the same social events with circles of friends that coincided more often than not. Ben can speak kindly of me, I hope, as I can of him, and I pray can attest to a sound mind on my part.  
  
I am not a native of this city, and while I believe my orienteering to be superb at home and abroad, I still often find myself puzzled by the extraordinary layout of Edinburgh. Provided one may stay on the spine of High Street, it isn’t difficult. However, I have heard the closes and wynds likened to those of a fish’s ribs, and I agree. They are warrens and mazes which can be quite navigable in daylight, but turn utterly labyrinthine in the dark, especially after visits to kind friends eager to rid their cupboards of whisky. Combined with Edinburgh’s general precarious perch and the steep grade of some of these closes, it can be a danger to those not careful on their feet.  
  
In the name of truth, sirs, I am not shy to admit that perhaps I had been taken to be a bit immoderate the night of this occurrence. In the defence of my senses, it was to celebrate the good fortune of Michael MacAulay, a good friend who had recently assured a position of further scholarship at the University and the attention of one of its great scientists with regard to his programme of choice. Gentlemen, you are well-aware of Edinburgh’s earned boast of being a centre of science and learning, which breeds competition among the students. That is to say that a celebration such as ours was well-earned.   
  
We made merry at a public house near Tron Church, toasting Michael and all his accomplishments. I styled myself rather a young Doctor Joseph Black and used my knowledge of chemistry to prove to my compatriots that certain substances could be combined and imbibed with perfect safety to the person. Unfortunately for myself, and to the delight of my friends, I felt terrifically ill and before expressing this on the street, announced that as of yet I was a student and not yet an accomplished chemist. Then I excused myself. I do not think I need to give grand detail to my ailments where imagination will do credit.  
  
Aside from the public houses burning lamps into the night, High Street was quiet in a way I was not used to. Typically, you understand, students and workers alike make use of well-lit streets at all hours, and even the unsavoury and fetid closes still pose less danger than expected. On this particular night, it felt as if all of Old Town slept on, oblivious to my miseries. After the worst of the sickness passed, I took a walk to clear my head and intended to walk to the Cowgate. Again, sirs, you know Edinburgh as well as I to know that some of the architectural nuances of the closes and wynds are rather baffling. Such is Old Fishmarket Close, which would have benefitted greatly from the installation of stairs. It is at such an incline that seemed impossible to my uncertain feet. However, I saw no better way to get to the Cowgate from my position and deemed it well enough to walk on and mind myself. I would walk slowly and keep close to the walls until the ground levelled out. It turns out to have been for naught, as my feet were not properly connected to my mind and I stumbled, hitting my head in a fall just narrowly salvaged by my grasping the wall. I was not terribly injured, but the fall had shaken me somewhat.  
  
It was then that I heard a strange voice come from one of the little alleys off the close. As I said, there are plenty of unpleasant figures that haunt these places at any hour, and native though I am not, I am surefooted enough in this city to pay most of them no mind. However, it was the sense that I had been alone that startled me so when the words came—flat words, with no lift to pose such a question. “Do you have a pipe, sir?” it asked.  
  
I did. I always carry my grandfather’s pipe and tend to keep it balanced on my bottom lip when deep in my studies. Sometimes, I do not light it but merely enjoy the weight of it to reassure me. My grandfather always used a particular aromatic tobacco and I enjoy much of the same, enough to keep it on my person.   
  
In all my swaying sense, I could not reason why some stranger would ask me for a pipe, lest they broken their own. Yet I also could not reason why I shouldn’t be able to share my own. I turned to espy the questioner and saw something all the more peculiar. There, in a dark warren, was what seemed to be only a portion of a man peering out of the darkness. Above him was a single lantern hanging from a hook above a black door. The light seemed sickly, somehow, as if the colour was coming from behind a screen of thick, yellow wax. All I could see of my companion was the top of his head and his shoulders. He wore a dark hat with a wide brim, hiding his face in the shadows. The oddest feature of all, if it could not be owed to my unsure eyes, was that he swayed back and forth on his little perch. Or, rather, the top of him swayed, but gave the sense that his lower half—invisible though it were—did not move at all. I watched him for a time, wondering if I was seeing something impossible, before he spoke again.  
  
“Do you have a pipe, sir?” he asked once more, and I remembered suddenly what I had been doing.  
  
Sirs, I cannot explain what possessed me to fill my grandfather’s pipe for this man, or why I lit a match and puffed the pipe for his leisure. All the while, I could not take my eyes away from the strange lamp above his head, or the way he moved as though he was a paper man caught in a gentle wind. Once the pipe was lit and I held it out for him to take, expecting him to step away from his spot, I was put in mind of a paper I read by a Mister Gerard Troost, describing the hunting patterns of a species of snapping turtle. Troost explains that this particular turtle uses its tongue in such a way as to lure fish directly into its mouth. That is to say, its tongue resembles the prey of its prey, and by the time the hapless creature realises the ruse, it is far too late. Why a man under a lamp put me in the mind of predation, I cannot say, but soon I realised that he did not move from his place under that nauseous glow.  
  
Once more, he asked, “Do you have a pipe, sir?”, and I suddenly became very, very afraid. I had the mind to run back up to High Street and seek out my companions, but my steps felt very sloppy and my head began to throb in pain. As I stumbled away from this terrible figure, his body seemed to sway with greater force, more like a clock’s pendulum now. He repeated his toneless question, face still obscured from that nightmarish lamp, before he abruptly folded in on himself. I mean folded in every sense of the word that may come to mind, sirs. I thought of hinges or paper, as the movement was just that unnatural for any man to undergo. In fear, I ran wherever my feet could take me that was not that cursed close. Eventually, I returned home and slept well through the morning and into the early afternoon.   
  
By the hour that a friend came calling round to see to after my health, I had convinced myself that what I had seen in the close was the product of an intemperate mind. Perhaps the man had been inebriated as well and our mutual movements gave everything the appearance of the unnatural, like magnets of like poles repelling with force. Yet I could not put the experience from my mind, and when I was well enough and certain of my senses, I returned to Old Fishmarket Close in the daylight to inspect the area. As expected, I found no evidence of such an event having occurred. There was certainly no folding man, and hardly even evidence that I had fallen. All I discovered was a streak of ash not far from the staircase, which I was almost drawn to ascribe to burnt tobacco.  
  
I have told very few of what I saw, and those who know the story often jeer at my expense or dismiss it as the product of a mind in need of sobriety. Gentlemen, and those of Mister Mackenzie’s society, I am often extraordinarily sober, and it is often my best senses that earn me great compliment in my studiousness. Would that I would agree with these friends were it not for the strangeness I have learned of with regards to the area. Others have disappeared near this place, and a friend of the local constable confessed that a Mister Fellowes—also of the University—disappeared the same night that I met with this shadow creature. I remember this gentleman also made constant use of his own pipe—a prized thing, if memory serves.   
  
Since that night, I have generally avoided taking in too much drink in any circumstances, even celebratory. I mind those I see in the closes and wynds, and while I haven’t stopped my use of my grandfather’s pipe, I never share it with others.  
  
I thank you gentlemen for your time and consideration and remain Your Obedient Servant— _Nathan Watts  
  
_

Jon puts the last flourish on Nathan’s name before reading over his work, checking and rechecking the accuracy. His silence is thoughtful before he opens the third letter from Mister McCarran. It’s a summary, as promised, outlining the disappearances of four young ladies, one man, and, indeed, a Mister John Fellowes in remarkably similar circumstances to that of Nathan Watts. Something in the writing sends a distinct chill through Jon before he shakes his head and begins his last transcription, committing the words to the blank paper in short order before sitting back and thinking on his handiwork.

“A head injury,” he says to himself, thumb prodding at the end tip of his pen, pushing the nib slightly out of the pool of dark ink. “Drunkenness, as he said. A late night spent too long in celebration to think clearly. An imagination prone to make shadow monsters out of lamplight.” He huffs a laugh to himself as he drops his hand to his desk, absent-mindedly glancing over the ink spatters dotting his fingers. Jon’s certain he’ll be permanently stained by the time the archive is completely organised— _if_ it’s ever completely organised.

He looks at the names of the young women, each glaring up at him from the page with accusations in their rounded letters like sets of dark eyes: Sarah Baldwin, Jessica McEwen, Daniel Rawlings, Ashley Dobson, Megan Shaw. There’s something of a plea in the cadences of their names when he says them aloud— _find me, find me._

But there are hundreds of documents just like this one, Jon’s sure. All he needs to do is look up at the scrambled shelves practically bending under the weights of their burdens.

_Find me_ , they say.

They _all_ say.

Jon quickly writes their names in the book with his own theories of explanation, waits a few moments for the ink to dry, and promptly shuts it.

He has a lot of work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


End file.
